<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>would it really kill you if we kissed? by collegespock</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577738">would it really kill you if we kissed?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/collegespock/pseuds/collegespock'>collegespock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, coughing up flowers, that one infidelity tag for all tomgreg fics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:36:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577738</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/collegespock/pseuds/collegespock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg manages to keep the petals down, so long as Tom is not touching him. This gets him through most meetings, and, sometimes, even a lunch break. </p><p>The problem is, those seem to be the only moments that Tom <i>isn’t</i> touching Greg.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>would it really kill you if we kissed?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Hanahaki Disease</i> is an illness in which the victim coughs up flower petals while suffering from one-sided love. The disease ceases when either the admired returns the victim’s romantic feelings, or when the victim dies.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I.</strong>
</p><p>Greg remembers the first tickle at the back of his throat clearly, that first strange almost-breath as it catches in his chest.</p><p>“I hear you’re the new kid.” </p><p>It comes as soon as those words leave Tom’s lips out on that baseball diamond in the dew-drenched grass. He wonders if he would have thought as much of it, had it not happened in that particular moment. But he does, remember it, though he’d tried to push it from his mind. </p><p>The words are few, and simple, and Tom is still a few feet away from Greg as he says them. But they catch Greg right away; the way the corner of Tom’s lip curves into an easy smile as they’re said, the way he looks at Greg with an interest that no one in the family has shown him yet. Greg’s embarrassingly grateful for the attention, immediately running up to Tom’s side like a sad puppy that’s just been told he can come inside. </p><p>He learns quickly that Tom is strange; that conversations with him are like roller-coasters, and even though it only takes a few seconds for him to wonder if he’s potentially being degraded by his unfamiliar cousin’s boyfriend, Greg finds comfort in how easy it is for them to find their strange rhythm. </p><p>The second tickle comes soon after, not even a minute. </p><p>“Would you kiss me?”</p><p>Greg swallows it down. “What? Kiss you?”</p><p>“Would you? If I asked you to?”</p><p>And there the tickle is <em> again, </em> and Greg has to look away while he pushes it down <em> again. </em> “Would I kiss you?”</p><p>“If I told you to?”</p><p>And <em> fuck, </em> he is <em> really </em> about to cough now, but then Tom fucking <em> laughs </em>and the feeling goes away, for the moment, at least. </p><p>And though the sensation is strange, he manages to think little of it for the rest of the day, though the tickle returns a few times over the course of the long night. Only a couple times, really, does it show up again, deep in his throat. And only when he’s talking to Tom, it seems. But he manages to keep it in the back of his mind, for the most part. </p><p>Within the week, however, ignoring it is no longer an option. </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>II.</strong>
</p><p>He’d seen the pictures in high school science presentations and on the informational flyers in student health. Crudely drawn illustrations of lovestruck fools with just the right wrong genetic dispositions, spewing clots of cherry blossoms and wild roses as they stare longingly at the objects of their affections. Clinical photographs of researchers analyzing the crumpled daffodil blooms of an unfortunate victim. It had only been twenty or so years since the disease had been first discovered, but long enough for Greg to have grown up knowing about it. </p><p>It doesn’t mean he’s prepared. </p><p>The first petals fall at the charity ball. </p><p>They begin their way up his throat the second Tom’s fingers are on his shoulder. It starts as a tickle, and gets worse as Greg glances towards Tom’s face, where he’s wearing that <em> smile,</em> and then that <em> tuxedo </em> and Greg clears his throat as discreetly as he can, and is grateful when they’re interrupted. </p><p>But then later, when Tom pulls him aside and accuses him (albeit justifiably) of talking to Gerri about the cruise line shitshow, Tom gets so <em> close </em> and he fixes on him with an intensity that Greg hasn’t seen yet, and he knows he should be scared but there’s something in his chest that pounds as Tom gets right in his face, something that <em> likes </em>it, and then the sensation at the back of his throat grows in a new way, and it no longer just feels like trapped air but he can feeling something almost smooth back there, something rubbing against his throat and he can’t go any longer without paying attention to it. But he swallows it down again. </p><p>As soon as Tom leaves, Greg lets out the long-suppressed cough that has been burning in his chest, and feels the lump in his throat cold and wet against his hand. </p><p>And there it is, the first. It is only one petal, to begin; one small petal, outsplayed like a fan in a deep crimson. Greg looks at it for a moment, before crushing it in his hand and shoving it into his pocket. He’s still at the ball, after all, and though his mind is racing with a thousand different thoughts, he’s present enough to know that nobody else needs to see <em> this.  </em></p><p>Whatever the fuck <em> this </em>is. </p><hr/><p>
  <b>III. </b>
</p><p>WebMD calls this the “budding” stage, where the initial and mildest symptoms occur. The petals are few and only come on when Greg is feeling particularly… <em> enamored. </em>He winces at the thought. </p><p>The coughs are uncomfortable, Greg learns the hard way. They leave his throat sore in a way that no wintergreen lozenge or ginger ale can ease, and even when he’s not coughing he’s still in pain.  </p><p>It doesn’t make any <em> sense. </em> Tom Wambsgans is, simply put, an asshole, and <em> easily </em>the worst boss that Greg has ever had. He’s cruel, and twists Greg’s arm any chance he can get, and makes terrible, awful requests of him that have Greg wondering if God’s just gonna smite him down any second. Even moreseo, he seems to get off on fucking with Greg’s head, and Greg’s grateful that Tom doesn’t know the reality of his situation, because he doesn’t even want to begin thinking about how ruthless he might be, then. </p><p>This is, of course, to go without mentioning that he’s <em> Greg’s cousin’s fiancé. </em>Which is its own fucking can of worms that Greg really doesn’t want to open right now. </p><p>All of this should mean that Tom is the <em> last </em>person that Greg should have feelings for. </p><p>And yet. </p><p>Greg can’t stop thinking about Tom. About his fingers wrapped around his tie, subtly tugging him closer. About how his hands feel against Greg’s shoulders, and how they’d feel wrapped around his neck. About how his lips must taste, like top-shelf scotch and sparkling water, how his morning shadow would feel against Greg’s mouth. </p><p>He pulls the crushed red petal from his pocket and holds it up in the glow of his laptop screen. </p><p>
  <em> And yet.  </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>IV.</strong>
</p><p>Greg manages to keep the petals down, so long as Tom is not touching him. This gets him through most meetings, and, sometimes, even a lunch break. </p><p>The problem is, those seem to be the only moments that Tom <em> isn’t </em>touching Greg. </p><p>He’s not sure if it’s a power thing, or if Tom is just a touchy-feely guy in general. </p><p>(He carefully doesn’t notice that it’s only <em> him </em> that seems to be at the other end of Tom’s subtle grabs and pulls and tugs and presses. That Tom’s wandering hands only seem to ever land on <em> Greg’s </em> arms, <em> Greg’s </em> shoulders, <em> Greg’s </em> knees and thighs and waist. No, Greg doesn’t notice that at <em> all.) </em></p><p>It’s easier to hide some coughing fits than others. When they’re at his bachelor party, and Tom keeps touching him more and more the drunker he gets, Greg takes advantage of the club’s darkness to cough into his hands when Tom looks away, shoving the petals into his pocket discreetly. He manages to do this even when he gets too high, and even as Tom tells him details of events that Greg <em> really </em>doesn’t want to hear about. </p><p>This is, inarguably, less easy when they’re dancing. </p><p>Greg hadn’t <em> meant </em> to dance with Tom. No, in fact, as much as Greg <em> wanted </em>to dance with Tom, he knew that that was the absolute worst idea that he could pursue. </p><p>This is why, when a very intoxicated Tom seems to make it a point to dance with Greg, it becomes a problem. </p><p>He’s not even sure if Tom knows that it’s him; granted, there weren’t too many other guys of his particular stature mingling that night (these were <em> New York’s Most Beautiful, </em> after all; not a support group for every guy who had ever disappointed their high school’s basketball coach.) But it certainly didn’t <em> seem </em> like Tom knew that it was him (<em>“New kid,” he remembers the smile, the catch in his throat) </em>and besides, it wasn’t like Tom could see his face as his hands found their way onto Greg’s hips. </p><p><em> Tom is drunk, </em>Greg reminds himself as his body betrays him, leaning into his touch. </p><p>Tom’s fingers dig into Greg’s hip bones, and presses his crotch against Greg’s ass, and Greg’s helpless as he pushes back, feeling Tom’s cock firmly against him. Tom is shorter than Greg, though not by much, and his head leans against Greg’s shoulder. </p><p>He’s grateful Tom can’t see him. Not because of his own hardening cock or his flushed cheeks, but because Greg is defenseless against the flowers now; one escapes his lips as Tom’s thumbs find their way to Greg’s belt loops, spinning to the floor inconspicuously amongst the unassuming clubbers. </p><p>Despite his better judgement, Greg doesn’t stop, feeling the music pulse through him as he leans back against Tom, and tries to forget the flowers creeping up his throat. </p><p>Greg manages to keep the petals down, so long as Tom is not touching him. </p><p>This does not mean Greg can stop touching Tom. </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>V.</strong>
</p><p>It’s Willa who catches him, at Tom and Shiv’s wedding, of all fucking places. </p><p>He’d thought he’d be alone in the coat closet, which is why he’d made a run for it as soon as he’d realized that not even cheating at their <em> wedding </em>would separate the happy couple. </p><p>He slams the door behind him, falling back against it as the petals come against his will, fluttering towards the floor, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s not alone. </p><p>“No shit,” she whistles, as they come sputtering from his lips helplessly. He wants to defend himself, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. This is a bad one, it seems, as nearly a half dozen flower’s worth of blossoms fall out. </p><p>The petals do, however, eventually stop, and then it’s just the two of them in that dimly lit closet. He wants to ask her what she’s doing there, but she speaks first. </p><p>“Carnations,” she says as she crouches down to see them closer in the faint light, careful not to touch them. “Interesting.”</p><p>“Yeah?” The word comes out weakly. </p><p>“Yeah.” She sounds matter-of-fact. “Red ones. Profound admiration, a painful yearning. <em> Alas for my poor heart, my heart aches.” </em></p><p>He winces, his face burning. <em> Great. Of course it has to be the melodramatic shit. </em> “How do you know that?”</p><p>“I’m a playwright,” she says simply, though she must recognize the confused look on Greg’s face as she continues with a sigh. “The Hanahaki disease may be new, but it’s great material. You know, the whole unrequited-love-’til-death thing. Really hot.”</p><p><em> Right. </em> This was getting borderline insensitive at this point. “I see.”</p><p>“Well?” she says unsympathetically, glancing back up at him expectantly. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Who is it? Clearly it’s someone here, or you wouldn’t be having this fit right now, would you?”</p><p>“It doesn’t work like that,” says Greg, and he’s not <em> really </em> lying. The petals could come from something as simple as a text or even a fucking <em> email, </em> as Greg had unfortunately learned one night when Tom had sent him fucking <em> sixty-seven </em>emails that had left Greg with enough petals to fill a bathtub on a romantic evening. “Other… things can trigger it, too.”</p><p>Expecting skepticism, he’s surprised when she seems to accept the answer with peaked interest. “Really? Fascinating.” And then her eyes flicker away, like she’s already considering how to fit that into one of her plays. </p><p>Before he’s lost her to the creative process entirely, he adds one last request. “You won’t… mention this to anyone, though? I mean, the whole family doesn’t have to know, right?”</p><p>She gives him a flippant wave of her hand, which he gratefully takes as a yes. </p><hr/><p><strong>VI</strong>.</p><p>Tom’s eyes flicker down towards the wastebin beside Greg’s desk. It’s overflowing with petals, the product of that morning’s post-meeting, during which Tom had insisted on standing behind Greg and keeping his hand tight on his shoulder. </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> He desperately wishes he’d had the good sense to hide it under his desk. <em> Idiot. </em></p><p>“Someone bringing you flowers, Greg?” </p><p>“No!” says Greg too quickly, and Tom’s brow raises instantly. <em> Fuck. </em>“I mean, they’re mine. But I just had them for myself. I… got flowers. For me.” </p><p>And then Tom has the audacity to <em> smile, </em>and Greg feels his throat begin to fill again and he just wants to die right then and there. </p><p>“Trying to redecorate?” says Tom cheekily, and Greg’s face is burning in a way that he prays isn’t noticeable. “What, ATN’s interior decorator not up to the standards of Cousin Greg?” As Tom says his name, his voice gets higher, coyer, almost flirtatious, and Greg has to cross his legs. </p><p>“No, no,” says Greg, stumbling over his words. “The office is great, it’s beautiful all on its own.” A moment’s pause, while his brain races. “That’s why I tossed them.” </p><p>Tom leans against Greg’s desk, causing Greg to instinctively fall back in his chair. His face is only a few inches away, and Greg can’t help but notice how nice he smells; there’s papaya and jasmine and musk in his scent, bright but sensual, and Greg wants to bury his face in Tom’s shoulder and memorize it.    </p><p>“Glad to hear you haven’t got an admirer,” says Tom, so close that Greg can feel his breath against his reddening cheeks. “ATN’s insurance doesn’t cover syphilis, just so you’re aware.”</p><p>“Uh, right,” nods Greg. “Is that from experience, then?”</p><p>Tom grins. “Just the World’s Best Boss, Greg. And get me those reports from those fucks with the morning broadcast, okay?” </p><p>Greg gives a short nod and a closed-mouth smile as the petals try to force their way up. Tom accepts it well enough, and is out the door, much to Greg’s relief. </p><hr/><p>Greg stops using the wastebin and starts using his desk drawer. The janitors toss the petals every night shift, never once mentioning it. </p><hr/><p>
  <b>VII. </b>
</p><p>It isn’t to say that Greg doesn’t have some genuine objections to ATN’s whole “human furniture and physical assaults and Nazi stuff” shit. He sure as fuck does. But that isn’t the only reason Greg has for needing to escape his office space at that moment, and he has a constantly sore throat and multiple trash bags of crushed petals back at his apartment to prove it. Not that it does him any good. </p><p>“I can come back, you know?” <em> When carnations don’t come spilling from my throat every time you look at me. </em>“It can be like a business open relationship.” His voice falters with the last few words. He knows they’re the wrong ones. </p><p>They are. He’s got the water bottle sized welts to show for it. </p><p>Greg doesn’t try to leave again, not that he much wanted to in the first place, anyways. </p><hr/><p>
  <b>VIII.</b>
</p><p>WebMD calls it a “full bloom,” when the uncomfortable budding stage progresses from simply petals to entire flowerheads. Greg knew, from the beginning, that it would get worse, but he hadn’t anticipated <em> this. </em>It’s fucking awful, feeling the blossoms scratch against his throat, which is perpetually raw these days. He’s grateful his lot is carnations, and not, like, fucking thorny roses or some shit. He gets physically sick every time he sees the inner stalk of a hibiscus. </p><p>He tries to remember it could be worse. </p><p>He smokes to suppress the flowers and the nausea. <em> It’s why you shouldn’t mix alcohol and marijuana, </em>the distant voice of his high school health teacher reminds him as he sips his Evan Williams before taking another hit of his joint. </p><p>It works well enough. </p><p>His plans for the evening include rolling up a few more joints and ordering in Chinese and staring mindlessly at his TV screen until he falls asleep. They’re good plans, and he’s been looking forward to them all day; he’s even got his favorite grey sweatpants on, alongside his plain undershirt. He’s ready to do absolutely nothing for the rest of the night.  </p><p>These plans, unfortunately, are thrown out the window when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings. </p><p>He rushes to put out his joint, tossing the roach in the metal Spider-Man lunch box that he’s hid his paraphernalia in since ninth grade and shoving it under his bed. In the minute it takes him to get to the door, the person behind it progresses from holding their finger on the button to knocking at a breakneck speed, and Greg’s half-convinced he’s going to get a fist in his face as he swings open the door. </p><p>It’s Tom, disheveled and flustered in a way Greg hasn’t seen before. He doesn’t wait for Greg to let him in, nor does he offer any hello. </p><p>“What’re we drinking tonight, Greg?” He sounds defeated. Greg hands him the shitty bourbon, expecting some snide comment. He’s disappointed when none come. </p><p>Tom takes it and drinks from the bottle, not giving it back when he’s finished. Instead, he makes his way to Greg’s couch, the only seat he has in his apartment save the bed a room away, and makes himself comfortable. He seems to be off in his own world, only looking up at the ceiling. </p><p>Greg stands in the middle of the room awkwardly for a moment, grateful for the joint he’s smoked because the sight of Tom so unkempt in <em> his </em>apartment has the garden in his chest abuzz. </p><p>Tom’s trance breaks as he looks at Greg, furrowing his brow. “Gonna stand there all night, Kemosabe?” </p><p>“Uh, right. No,” Greg stumbles, joining Tom on the small sofa. It’s only meant to fit two people, and with them both being so tall, there’s hardly any room between them. Greg is careful to not let their legs touch; the weed doesn’t work <em> that </em>well. </p><p>“Um, how goes it?” says Greg, in an attempt to break the silence. </p><p>“Everything’s shit, Greg,” sighs Tom as he takes another pull from the bottle before handing it to Greg, who accepts it gratefully. </p><p>“Everything… okay at home?” presses Greg as subtly as he can, before watering the piling flowers in his throat with the brown liquor. </p><p>“It’s not working,” says Tom flatly, and Greg doesn’t have to push any further to know he means Shiv. Greg is no marriage expert, but asking for an open relationship on your wedding night has to be at least a bit like a kiss of death, right?</p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that,” lies Greg, passing the bottle back. “Really sorry.” </p><p>Tom laughs harshly into the bottle. “I’m glad to hear someone is.” </p><p>They stay like that for a while, just passing the bottle between them and talking about surface-level bullshit, until they’re both proper shitfaced. It has to be well past midnight, by this point, and Greg, in his stupor, wonders if Tom will let him have the day off tomorrow. <em> Probably not.  </em></p><p>Greg goes to take a pull from the bottle, and is reminded that it’s empty, and has been for some time. He goes to place it on the table beside him, when there’s a newfound warmth on his inner thigh. </p><p>His chest tightens as he looks down and sees Tom’s hand there, fingers pressing into his sweatpants, dangerously close to his crotch. When he looks up at Tom’s face, he finds that he’s facing forward, eyes closed, entirely expressionless. And yet, his hand continues to caress Greg’s thigh. </p><p>He feels his own cock push against the soft cotton of his sweatpants, eager at the touch that he’s craved for months. He tries to will it down, with little avail; his body betrays him. <em> Predictable, </em>he thinks glumly as he chokes back the flowers that have begun again with renewed vigor. </p><p>Greg wants to fuck Tom. <em> Obviously, </em> Greg wants to fuck Tom. There’s no point in arguing it.</p><p>But if Greg just wanted to simply fuck Tom, he wouldn’t have a cacophony of fucking carnation petals erupting from his chest every time Tom so much as looked him. No, Greg wants more than to just <em> fuck </em> Tom. </p><p>But Greg doesn’t stop him. Far from it. He lets Tom’s hand cup his cock through the cotton, lets him tighten his grip and begin stroking him through the fabric. </p><p>The flowers come up, of course. But Greg bites down on them, his lips closed. He digs his teeth into them and closes his eyes, and imagines they’re Tom’s tie, and he bites <em> harder. </em></p><hr/><p>When Greg wakes up on his couch the next morning, Tom is gone. They don’t talk about those brief few minutes; he doesn't even know if Tom <em>remembers </em>it.</p><p>The flowers are worse than ever. </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>IX.</strong>
</p><p>Willa doesn’t have to catch him again to know what’s going on every time Greg suddenly leaves the room. </p><p>Her voice is soft as she corners him on the veranda, alone. “It can kill you, you know.”</p><p>Greg doesn’t say anything. </p><p>“You should tell him, whoever it is.”</p><p>His laugh is hoarse. “Yeah, trust me. That’s not a good idea.”</p><p>“I don’t see how it could hurt.”</p><p>He knows she’s trying hard to look apathetic, but as her eyes lock on his, he can see that there’s a genuine concern behind them, which only makes Greg feel worse.</p><p>“Just -“ he falters. “Just, trust me? Okay? It’s useless."</p><p>“Then you should at least tell the family. They could get you into the best hospitals, you know, with the best doctors. Maybe they could do something to help.”</p><p>“Yeah, maybe.” He knows he won't. </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>X.</strong>
</p><p>It is a rough day at the office for Greg. Tom’s got a new suit that hugs his ass just <em> right, </em> and it makes Greg <em> miserable. </em></p><p>He stays late that night, trying to catch up on all the work he couldn’t do as he’d spent the day heaving into his desk drawer. Almost all the lights are out in the office, save for the rooms the janitors are working on. He’s alone enough, he thinks. </p><p>He tries to stare at the harsh glow of the computer in front of him, but the letters and numbers all seem to blend together on the screen. <em> Fuck, </em> he doesn’t feel well. He knows he should really just call it and go home, but he knows Tom also <em> really </em>needs this done. </p><p><em> Tom. </em>The mere fucking thought has Greg spewing again, carnations scattering like dead leaves in a storm across his desk and the floor. The last few petals flutter out gracelessly, and after a moment, Greg sighs, and weakly opens his desk drawer, clearing his desktop of the evidence. </p><p>He gets out of his chair and moves down to the floor, picking up the petals and putting them with the rest. <em> God, </em>he’s exhausted, and the mere act of cleaning up has him about to pass out right there. Right, he’s really got to get home, and to bed. Maybe he’ll call off tomorrow. </p><p>“Knock knock, Bitch McConnell. What’re you still doing here?” </p><p>And it’s all Tom has to say to send Greg spiraling into the worst bloom he’s had yet. The petals go <em> everywhere. </em>They’re on the floor, and the desk chair, and Greg’s suit, hundreds of them. It <em>hurts, </em>and completely knocks the wind out of Greg as he lurches forward. </p><p>And then there’s Tom in the middle of it all, mouth agape, and clearly shocked. Greg really can’t blame him. As he looks at him, the petals start coming harder, by the dozens now, and he can barely sit up. </p><p>“What the fuck, <em> Greg?”  </em></p><p><em> He knows. </em> Greg wants to argue, but is helpless; the petals are still coming. Tom’s on the floor with him now, trying to help with little avail. <em> He knows it’s him.  </em></p><p>“Fucking <em> Hanahaki? </em> How the fuck can you have let it progress this far before telling any of us?” Tom is shouting now, despite the fact that he’s right in Greg’s ear, adding another level of pain to Greg’s nightmare. “I mean, what the <em> fuck, Greg?” </em></p><p>And though he can hear him plenty clear, it takes Greg a moment to <em> hear </em> him, and realize his initial reaction was wrong. Tom <em> doesn’t </em> realize what’s happening, not entirely. And somehow, that makes it even <em> worse.  </em></p><p>The flowers finally settle for the moment, and Tom helps him to lean up against the wall, before pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Greg knows exactly what he’s about to do, and through the mouthful of bitter carnations, <em>“Stop.” </em></p><p>He expects Tom to ignore him, but by some miracle, he doesn’t. His phone remains in his hand, screen black, as his eyes lock on Greg, who’s never felt smaller in his life. </p><p>“Greg,” says Tom, slowly and deliberately, “I have to get you to a hospital.”</p><p>Greg shakes his head, wiping shakily at the petals he felt to be stuck to his lips, and tries to not think about the blossoms he still holds on his tongue. </p><p>“Can we, I don’t know, at least <em> call </em>whoever the fuck is causing this right now? I mean, have you even tried telling them? Or are you just doing your cousin Greg thing, and trying to ignore the fucking problem until it goes away?”</p><p>Greg manages two words. <em>“I can’t.”  </em></p><p>“Seriously, what the <em> fuck, </em> Greg?” Tom’s voice stays low, but Greg can hear the anger rising in it, the frustration in its pointedness. “So you’re just going to not tell anyone, then? And expect me to just, what? See that you’ve played hooky and come barging into your apartment, and find you fucking dead in a puddle of fucking,” Tom’s voice withers as his eyes drift towards the flowers scattered across Greg’s sweater, “what are those, fucking magnolias? Or something? I mean, what the <em> fuck?” </em></p><p>Greg wants to say <em> carnations, </em>but decides to preserve his breath. So he shrugs timidly, despite all it is that he wants to say. </p><p>Tom pinches his nose with his fingers and shuts his eyes hard, leaning against Greg’s desk. He stays like this for a moment, and it’s only the quiet between them, and Greg uses the opportunity to pluck a few flowerheads from his mouth, though he can already feel a few more beginning their short creep up his throat. </p><p>Finally Tom breaks the silence. “So who is it, then?”</p><p>Greg says nothing. </p><p>“Is it one of those guys from that night, then?” Tom continues. “Because, if so, man, <em> bad </em>taste.” </p><p>Greg wants to laugh, but like most things Greg wants, he can’t have it. He shakes his head instead. </p><p>“Is it…” Tom looks up at the ceiling, briefly, as if trying to think of other places where Greg might have acquired a tragic one-sided romance. “Is it someone from the office?”</p><p>Greg hesitates, which Tom notices immediately. “It is, then?” Greg watches helplessly as Tom apparently considers everyone they work with. “Is it that strapping young fuck who runs our shit Twitter page? Adam?”</p><p>“Alan,” corrects Greg, though his voice is muffled.</p><p>“It’s Alan? <em> That </em>waste of company money?” </p><p>Greg shakes his head quickly. Tom seems almost relieved. “Is it Brad with the evening broadcast then? Because you know he keeps an entire set of first-edition signed copies of <em> The Baby-Sitters Club </em>in his desk. It’s fucked up, Greg.”</p><p>Greg wants to groan, but the carnations he’s stalled in his throat won’t let him, so instead he keeps denying all of Tom’s suspicions quietly. There are many, ranging from Carson in Marketing <em>("You know he’s got six huskies, Greg? You don’t want six fucking huskies.”) </em> to Jordan in Accounts <em>("Foot fungus, Greg. And I won’t tell you how I know that.”)</em> and everyone in between. Greg shakes his head to them all. </p><p>At some point while Tom has been playing Twenty Questions with the perpetrator of Greg’s affliction, he’d crouches down to Greg’s level so that they had no choice but to look each other in the eyes. </p><p>“Don’t make this hopeless when it doesn’t have to be.”</p><p>Greg wants to say, <em>but it has to be, </em>but the unforgiving flowers won’t let him, so he just shakes his head again and <em>fuck, </em>he’s so <em>tired </em>of this and he just wishes this were <em>over, </em>so fucking badly. Everything <em>hurts, </em>from his throat to his chest to his heart and he just wishes he could stop loving Tom fucking Wambsgans but he fucking <em>can’t </em>and despite what Tom says, it’s hopeless because <em>it</em> <em>has to be. </em></p><p>He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he sees Tom rustling in his suit pocket and procuring a perfectly folded Kleenex, and then Tom’s bringing it up to Greg’s cheeks and his fingers are brushing against Greg’s skin, and the simple act causes Greg to lurch forward with a proper fucking bouquet of crimson flowers, getting them all over the pair of them. </p><p>“Oh, <em> Jesus, </em>fuck, Greg.” He expects Tom to jump up and wipe them away, but he doesn’t; instead, he stays there, and pushes the framing layers of Greg’s hair back behind his ears, making sure they don’t get in the way of the petals. “Is it always this bad?”</p><p>Greg shakes his head with all the effort he can muster, flowers still pushing their way up his throat. </p><p>Tom is still pushing back Greg’s hair as he talks, though his eyes are locked on the petals as they continue falling. “Never met someone with the capital-L <em> Lovesickness </em> before,” he muses, voice soft. He’s never been this gentle with Greg before, and the affection brings forth <em> more </em>flowers, and Tom just stays there with him, caring for him in the dimly-lit office. </p><p>“I did watch the episode of <em> The Misfortunate Ashfords </em>where the Professor gets it bad for the coffee shop girl, and he ends up spewing daffodils all over the counter every time he tries to order a latte. Was a pretty funny episode.” Tom pauses for a moment. “Though probably not as funny now.” </p><p>For a brief moment, Greg is grateful that his mouth is otherwise occupied because he’s not sure what to say back to that. </p><p>Tom keeps talking. “It’s got a happy ending, though, if that makes you feel better. But man, the Professor would be just completely fine, going about his day, and then the second he’d see her through the window, <em> bam! </em> He puts the St. Pauls Annual Horticultural Exhibition to shame.” There’s a faint smile on Tom’s lips as he apparently remembers the episode, and then his lips pause, and something flickers across his face. </p><p>Tom’s gaze, which has been largely focused on the flowerbomb around them, meets Greg’s; his expression is different this time, as his look of concern becomes one of apprehensive study. Greg returns his gaze hesitantly. </p><p>“Every time he looked at her, the petals fell,” says Tom slowly, and Greg wishes he could disappear. </p><p>“But you know what made it worse, Greg?”</p><p>And Tom doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t have to; because Tom takes him hand, pressing his palm against the side of Greg’s face, gently but firmly. And the flowers come falling, <em> hard, </em>harder than when Tom came in unannounced, harder than when he wiped away Greg’s tears. </p><p>And Greg knows that now Tom knows, as his secret tumbles out of his lips in hundreds of small, crimson blossoms. </p><p>Tom whistles softly through his teeth as he watches the results of his sudden experiment before bringing his eyes back up to meet Greg’s. </p><p>“It’s me, then? <em> I’m </em>the one causing this?”</p><p>And Greg wants to say, <em> Yes, it’s you. It’s your fault, it’s your doing. My flowers are for you, and they will tear me apart and leave me as nothing but a crushed bouquet before I stop, and I know love shouldn’t feel like this but this is the love I feel, and it hurts, and hurts and hurts, but it will be worth it. Because you’re fucking Tom Wambsgans and with you, the line between love and pain has never been clear and I’ve always loved what’s bad for me, and so maybe it was always meant to be like this. </em></p><p>But before Greg can even begin to try to say these words, Tom’s hand finds its way to Greg’s inner thigh, and his lips are against Greg’s ear. “You want me, Greg?”</p><p>And Greg nods helplessly, his chest pumping out flowers faster than breath, and the carnations fall erratically around them, and he expects Tom to look at him with horror but, no, his look is different, <em> completely </em> different. It’s a strange combination of amusement and intrigue and Greg doesn’t know what to do but keep nodding. <em> It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.  </em></p><p>“Greg, you <em> fucking idiot.” </em> And then Tom’s lips are against his, and though Greg is exhausted and has a throat full of flowers, he kisses him back desperately, feeling the petals push against his teeth as he kisses him with an energy he hadn’t known he still had, and he doesn’t let them part until he absolutely has to. When the kiss does break, Greg turns his head away and coughs hard, until all the petals have made their way up and Greg can <em> breathe; </em>his throat hasn’t been this clear since he was the new kid at the infamous birthday party over a year ago, and it still hurts as he gasps for breath, but it’s a good pain, a long-awaited pain that he’s grateful for. </p><p>And as his eyes flicker back to Tom’s, he watches as the other man plucks one small, crimson petal from his own lips, clearly a casualty of their kiss, and Greg wants to blush but his face is already as red as the carnations that surround him, but then Tom gives him a lazy grin and pulls him back in by the tie. </p><p>And after that, no more petals fall from Greg’s lips, and is quite happy to never see another fucking carnation again in his life. </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>XI.</strong>
</p><p>When Greg opens his door the next night, Tom is standing there with a cheeky grin and a bouquet full of magnolias. </p><p>Maybe Greg doesn't hate <em>all </em>flowers. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>